Greetings, Guests and Mommas-of-All-Sorts!
Okay, I suppose I should be a big girl here, pull my frazzled head out from under the quilted covers, and reassure the world that I'm okay. Really, I'm okay. Disappointed and frustrated, still disbelieving, yes. But okay. Huge thanks to all of you who left strings of heartfelt, profanity-laden words of sympathy. I needed that, some affirmation that the situation sucks. It made me proud to have spurred what was perhaps the most prolific use of the word "fuck" in the history of blogging.
Several really wonderful things, aside from the aforementioned onslaught of brilliantly naughty language, happened these past few days as a direct result of my earning my KuKdX3 badge of honor. Let me pay tribute to those things first, since the fact that they stemmed from something bad makes them no less good:
First of all, Kevin, in an unprecedented move, scooped up our dog Tebow from the living room sofa, carried him into the bedroom where I was lying in bed and sullenly staring at the ceiling, and set him down on top of my chest. He then lay down next to me, and stroked Tebow's head as he licked my slightly-snotty nose (to clarify: the dog licked my nose, not the husband).
Now, it's important to note that Kevin NEVER lets Tebow into the bedroom. It would not only create the potential for muddy paw prints on the sheets, but it would mean that Tebow is potentially equal to Kevin in status, essentially doubling as another "manly master of the household," otherwise known as "He Who Gets To Sleep With the Woman." No, no. Tebow is a DOG, relegated to the living room, and Kevin is a MAN, with the manly right to the bedroom territory.
But not this time. It was a happy, perfect moment.
Second, at my urgent request, Kevin and Tebow and I walked to the tavern, OUR tavern. We hadn't been there in a while, for somehow the thought of being in a cozy bar and drinking a soda water instead of a beer makes me more than a little unmotivated to go. We tied the dog up outside, went in and each downed a chilled pint of Kiltlifter beer, which - for those you who aren't familiar with this brew - is amber in color (my favorite beer color) and contains twice the alcohol content of most beers. With that warm and buzzy feeling in our shoulders, we set down our empty glasses and continued along to sun-dappled Green Lake, walking around its 2.75-mile circumference with our fingers interlaced.
We don't usually walk with our fingers interlaced, but times like this - not to mention that Kiltlifter beer - bring our hands together, reminding us again that we have each other, and that we have a lovely lake within walking distance.
There were some other things too, but those were my favorites. Moving on to less savory subject material:
The most mind-boggling element of this whole thing (as if it isn't mind-boggling enough that a person can have such shitty godforsaken luck) is not unlike a riddle from the outside of a sugar cereal box: when is a woman pregnant and not pregnant at the same time?
The answer, OF COURSE - doesn't the whole world know this? - is an anembryonic pregnancy, otherwise known as a "blighted ovum." This is what's happened - and what is, in fact, STILL happening - to me.
Now, I'm not going to call it a "blighted ovum," because that sounds too much like either: a) something the a mean old schoolteacher would accuse you of doing or having, and rap your knuckles with a ruler as punishment; or b) some strange illness from the Middle Ages or the old colonial days, like "whooping cough" or "bubonic plague" or "crazy man's voice" (I made up that last one).
No, "anembryonic pregnancy" has a modern and benign ring to it, and what I like is that it legitimizes the experiences as an actual pregnancy, even though - by www.dictionary.com standards - it's not.
What happens is this: the egg gets fertilized and a gestational fluid-filled sac develops around it, just like what's supposed to happen. The fertilized egg, though, never turns into anything more than a little dot, and gets absorbed back into the uterus. Your body doesn't know this, however, and releases a surge of pregnancy hormones and symptoms, hence the plus sign and morning sickness (and, I hope, the cravings - for if I was really just craving cheeseburgers because I'm a glutenous cheeseburger-loving lard-ass, then I'm really going to get depressed). Even the gestational sac keeps growing as though there is a fetus inside it.
But there isn't.
In other words, an anembryonic pregnancy is like nature's greatest trick: you've got this thing growing inside you and all the signs to show it, but there isn't a baby there, or anything that will ever BE a baby. Ha ha! Joke's on you!
Of course, my immediate thought when the doctor confirmed this plight, or "ovum blight," if we're going to use that term, was: why ME of all people? Dude, I (of all people) don't need this kind of mind-screw. But then again, I learned a long time ago not to question or spew forth hatred toward the person or thing controlling the gears up there, deciding who should get screwed over and who shouldn't.
As one of my wisest friends pointed out to me: we all get good fortune coming at us in one way or another. It might not be when or how we expect it, but it comes to us. And as Kevin reminds me time and time again, we've came through life relatively unscathed until July 2006, when we both learned, for the first time, that things don't/won't always go our way. I think we've aged about ten years in the past two, and this third blip etches another crows-feet line in the corner of my eye. This is our share of bad luck, but we've had lots of good to balance it out, and - hopefully - more to come.
GOD, this sounds so irritatingly, Polyanna positive, doesn't it? I'm sorry. A bit more gore to bring this post back down to earth: the absolutely IRRITATING part of this whole dang thing is that I now must somehow expel the fluid-filled, baby-less sac inside my womb, sure to be a bloody and crampy affair like most early miscarriages. So I'm debating making that happen with meds, although I'm sure I could gnaw on some special kind of twig and grass roots to make that happen naturally. Deep down, I'm still a Western-medicine kinda gal.
In a way, it's oddly (or perhaps not-so-oddly) relieving to know that there isn't really a fetus inside that sac. That would mean losing something more than just some non-living tissue, an entity that had potential to be a person. THAT person, the brown-haired-girl who was to be our daughter.
But the biological truth is, she never was, in any form. I was pregnant with her in my mind, but not in my body. Which does make it kind of hard to process this - what I've lost, what I'm sad about, why it still feels like crap. I think for now, I can chalk it up to disillusionment, and confirmation of my now well-rooted fear of radiologists - their offices, their lab-coat-clad assistants, their machines, their darkened rooms, the wands, their switches, their goopy KY jelly, their stoic expressions.
They are like bad-news robots, and I just might have to kick the ass of the next one to serve me a bad-news sundae. I think I could do it; I can almost hold my own with Kevin at mercy and arm-wrestling.